A Tiny Little Gift to Me
by thimbles
Summary: Soft hair and a velvet tongue/ I want to give you what you give to me/ And every breath that is in your lungs/ Is a tiny little gift to me. The puzzle pieces were already in place. I just didn't know what I was seeing. A Jack White-inspired ficlet for my friend, BelieveItOrNot.
1. Chapter 1

_Hi!_

_Thanks to dreaminginnorweigen who read my very first draft and gave me the confidence to keep going with this. Also, my thanks to Hadley Hemingway for waving her magic beta-wand over this. I appreciate your assistance, lovely ladies._

_This one's for Believey. She's the very best friend a girl can have._

* * *

**A Tiny Little Gift to Me.**

_Soft hair and a velvet tongue/ I want to give you what you give to me/ And every breath that is in your lungs / Is a tiny little gift to me._

_The puzzle pieces were already in place. I just didn't know what I was seeing. _

_A Jack White-inspired ficlet for my friend, BelieveItOrNot._

* * *

**Chapter 1. **

An hour before sunset. For just a few minutes, this part of town is beautiful. Orange light falls across the crumbling concrete castles. Grime turns to glitz. The sun drags its burning hand across the streetscape, its fingertips catch on the quartz crystals embedded in the pavement. Sparks fly.

The cement is cool under my legs, none of the day's warmth stored there. I close my eyes, tip my face toward the sky.

When I open my eyes, the sun has been pulled behind that new building up on Station Street where it seduces the nicer side of town with her fresh paint and her shiny windows.

Shadows lengthen across drab grey and, like the woman who for a moment felt beautiful in her cheating lover's arms, the industrial complex feels sullied. Dirty.

Concrete stained with graffiti, wads of blackened chewing gum, birdshit. Grimy windows. The ones that aren't broken or boarded over with sheets of ply.

My skin crawls. The filth is contagious.

A flight of sparrows touches down on the other side of the street. Their heads turn this way and that—it feels like they're keeping me in their sights. Two hop off the curb to peck at something in the street.

I stand up slowly. My knees crack and my spine pops as I stretch. I spit my gum out, another scar on the pavement.

Leaves, scattered like shreds of brown paper, have collected in the gutter. I step off the sidewalk, crunch through them. I like the feeling of them crumbling under my feet.

I dig my phone from my pocket and send you a text: _What you doing?_

I kick at the piles of dry leaves, waiting for you to reply. A pebble, hidden under the leaf matter, bounces across the street. The sparrows startle, rising into the air with their _tik-tik_ noise.

Why haven't you answered yet? That phone's been fixed in your palm since the day you got it.

The next hidden pebble gets stuck under the sole of my boot and I almost trip; the pavement looms toward me until I steady myself. There's a white scratch left behind on the concrete.

I drop to my knees and pick up the rock, make a few experimental swipes across the ground.

I start to write. Rock on rock, I feel the vibrations climb into my shoulder, just under the blade, buzzing there as I scratch my heart out on the filthy ground.

_waiting in your silence  
__who gets to hear you  
__waiting in your shadow  
__who gets to see you  
__glowing like you do_

_armor discarded  
__in a pile on the floor  
__hair like a haystack  
__swollen lips  
__and black-streaked cheeks_

_when you're ruined  
__you're perfect  
__sullied  
__you shine_

"Stupid." I stand up and try to wipe the words away with my boot, this heart-on-my-sleeve outburst. I've scuffed out the first two lines when I realize it doesn't matter. Who's going to read it?

From you, there's only silence.

I pull a hand through my hair and start walking again. My fingers come away tacky. Wiping my hand on my sweater, I tell myself I'll wash it tonight.

Green starts to sprout up as I walk on. At first it's just weeds and shit in the seam between two slabs of concrete. A few blades of grass in the middle of a cracked driveway. Then a little white flower, staring down at the dirt.

A small pot of yellow daisies on someone's ricketty balcony. A bent and leafless tree that looks like one more gust of wind will pull its roots from the ground.

Life creeps in through the city's cracks. Little by little, until I'm walking up a street with neatly mown lawns and manicured hedges. Rose-less bushes that are disciplined more strictly than the children who race across the grass and through open front doors, their high-pitched voices singing farewells across the street like little birds calling out from their nests.

And I'm home. Apparently.

It's never felt like a resting place, though. More like base camp. A place to eat and sleep between the adventures I always wanted to have but never quite got around to beginning.

I stop in front of a ornate-looking letterbox, all wrought iron and curlicues. The only thing that's ever delivered into it are flyers from the local pizza place and the occasional bill my mom hasn't got around to switching to online payments. The days where you'd leave me notes scrawled in pink glitter pen are long gone.

I lie down on the verge, wriggle around until I'm half-hidden by the hedge that serves as a fence. Mom pays some guy way too much to trim it so the neighbors can't criticize her for letting the place go.

On my back, with the grass itching that gap between my jeans and my sweater, I stare at the sky. The sun's sinking low now, night creeping in.

_Where are you?_

A star or two peep out overhead. We don't see many of them out here. Don't need them. Not with the thousands of dollars of twinkling lights that line the roofs and windows and fences of every house in a neighborly game of "We've got more Christmas Spirit than You."

They're enough, though, those scattered stars, too stubborn to be outshone by a galaxy of LEDs. Enough to remind me of how big the universe is and how insignificant we are inside it.

They're enough, too, to make me wonder if you're staring at the sky, wherever you are, whoever you're with. Or maybe there's electric light shining over you.

Maybe your eyes are squeezed closed and all your existence is focused, not on the vastness of the Milky Way, but on the feel of someone else's lips on yours.

My stomach flips. Feels like it could fall right out of me. If I got up and walked away right now, it'd stay behind on the grass, spasming.

Craning my neck, I look at the house a few doors down. Your house since we were nine. Before that, grumpy old Mr. Stonefield lived there. I used to move his collection of gnomes around after dark, hoping to scare him, make him think they came alive by night. I don't think he ever noticed.

Your house is all lit up, and I can just make out your mom's silhouette in the kitchen window. She's probably got dinner on the stove and the twins perched at the kitchen table, reading to each other.

_Are you in there, too?_

I could go over. Knock.

Maybe not.

Your mom'd probably tell me to take a hike. She'd be more subtle than that, of course.

Your parents think I'm a "bad influence" on you. They see the greasy hair and the unwashed clothes, the eyeliner and the chipped black nailpolish, and they press their lips together and shake their heads. They sigh, like they wish they could expel me from their lives, and yours, as easily. Just blow me out of their lungs like a spent breath and have me dissipate into the atmosphere. When they think I can't hear, they mutter about "that poor woman" being left to raise "that little hellion," "that queer kid," all on her own.

They remind you that my priorities are different from yours, tell you I'll become a distraction if you're not careful.

"Bella," they say, "we just want what's best for you. We're not so sure Edward has the same concerns."

"You two are almost finished school now." Your mom. "You've had your fun. Time to get serious."

"That kid just needs some discipline." Your dad. "A stint in the Army'd sort him out. Teach him some responsibility and respect."

And sure, maybe they have reason to feel that way. Because maybe it was from my outstretched hands that you took your first beer, your first shot… your first cigarette. And yeah, maybe I rolled your first joint and slipped you your first pill. I may also have had a hand in your first orgasm. But I've never given you anything you didn't ask for first.

All the trouble we've gotten into over the years… maybe it _is_ my fault. But not because I instigated it. Because I can't say "no" to you.

…

I sat on the edge of the bathtub, watching you dust your eyelids with a shimmery silver powder.

"Where does your mom think you are?"

You lifted one shoulder. Your attention was on your own reflection. "Studying with Alice."

"Nice. You haven't used that one for a while."

You smirked at that. "Alice's mom has a new boyfriend. He's about fifteen years younger than she is. She's happy to cover for us."

Of course. Mutual back-scratching: you keep my secret and I'll keep yours.

"Where's Alice?"

Another half-shrug. You didn't elaborate as you set down the eyeshadow and picked up a black pencil.

I watched you outline your eyes in black. It looked good. Made them look wider or something. Made them stand out in your face.

"I like that stuff," I said. "Makes your eyes look pretty."

You turned toward me, and I could see mischief sparking in those black-lined eyes. "You think?"

I nodded, wary as you stepped toward me, the pencil aimed in my direction.

"Can I do yours?"

"Huh?"

You waved the pencil like a magic wand. "Can I do your eyes? It'll look great, I promise."

You weren't really asking. You straddled my legs, perched on my lap, and put your finger on my cheek. "Don't blink."

I didn't.

Ten minutes later, we were standing on the front porch, you bouncing on your toes as I locked the door.

"So," I shoved my key under the doormat, "where are we going?"

"Riley's place."

"To do…"

The bulb overhead flickered a few times, made it look like the light was bouncing off your shoulders as you shrugged. "Who cares? It's better than being stuck at home reading to two snot-faced four year olds."

There was affection in your voice as you spoke about your sisters, and I knew it wasn't them you were escaping. You loved them. But you wanted to escape that strange role your mom had jammed on you like a badly fitting sweater. From the day she brought them home you'd been part sister, part mother. An unpaid and unthanked babysitter, guilted into caring for two little girls ten years your junior.

"You spent all those years begging me for a sister, Isabella," your mom would say. "Now you've got two, and you can't watch them for an hour while I get my hair done?"

"What kind of example are you setting for your sisters, Isabella?"

"Isabella, pay the girls some attention. They'll end up costing me a fortune in therapy bills on account of you."

It made me squirm in my chair when I heard her say things like that. I would put the tip of my tongue between my teeth and press down, the sting to remind me that I'd just make things worse if I said what I wanted to. I could've pointed out, for example, that you'd also been asking for your own cell phone for the last three years—she didn't grant _that_ request. You were too young for a cell phone, but not to be left in charge of two little kids.

"Okay." I stepped off the porch, fumbling with the zip on my sweater. "Let's go."

There were only about a dozen people at Riley's, gathered in the basement. Three or four of the guys were squashed together on the mold-stained couch playing the latest version of Grand Theft Auto. Everyone else was sprawled out on beanbags, stoned or on their way there.

I took off my sweater and zipped you into it, pulled the hood over your head.

"I'm not cold," you said. You giggled as I tucked your hair behind your ear.

I shook my head. "I do my own laundry."

"Ohh… Well, thanks."

…

If that had been the extent of our friendship, then, yeah. Maybe your parents would have a point. Their fingers would be pointing the wrong direction, but it would be fair to say we weren't any good for each other.

But we've always been more than that. More than just "partners in crime."

From the first time we walked home from school together, wearing the same shoes and discovering we were reading the same book, we've been connected on some _other_ level.

We had fun with the rest of our friends, mucking around, talking shit, laughing. _Experimenting._ They had our backs and we had theirs. A boisterous group of girls and guys who didn't give a shit about labels—on clothes, CDs, or people. Misfits all of us, the "leftovers" who'd rejected, and been rejected by, cliquism. We were happier for it.

But with you… There's always been something more. Some kinship, something felt but unnamed. An understanding that who we were yesterday might not be who we wanted to be tomorrow. We gave each other the space to be whoever we needed to be. And taking, giving, that space? Somehow it brought us closer.

…

We were sprawled on your bed and the new blonde streaks your mom insisted you try "for the summer" were bright against the purple comforter. You smile told me I was in trouble. "Tell me a secret," you said.

"You know them all." Anything I ever needed to hide from my mother, my friends—you were probably by my side when I did it or said it.

You pouted, lips shiny with the gloss you picked out that afternoon when we filled my prescription. It was red and sticky-looking, smelled like cherries. Tasted gross.

"Aw, come on. There must be something I don't know about you."

I rolled onto my back, looked up at your ceiling. Johnny Depp no longer smoldered above me. He'd fallen down about six months earlier, leaving three pieces of Blu-tak behind.

Maybe you didn't know everything about me, but you knew all the important things.

"I write really bad poetry."

"I know. I've read most of it."

My hands made fists as I turned my head back to you. "You what?"

You shrugged. Didn't even look guilty. "The Moleskine in your desk drawer."

I looked for the anger I should have felt at your invasion. It must've been running late. It'd probably show up, huffing and red-faced, the perfect words ready, an hour after I went home.

"It's not so bad," you said. "But you've gotta have a better secret than that."

I pushed the hair off my forehead. "Why don't you just ask me? If there's something you really want to know."

You were quiet, too quiet.

"Bella?"

"My mom says… I mean, it doesn't make any difference to me, either way… But my parents, they think you're gay."

I waited.

Your gaze met mine and I could see nothing different in the way you looked at me. It wasn't the first time I'd been asked that—or accused of it—but I could see that no matter how I answered, I'd still just be Edward to you.

"Are you?"

"I–I don't think so," I said.

"Is that a no?"

Was it? I'd only had sex with girls—well, _a_ girl. Only a few months previously, during the summer break before junior year. We had fun, but then Tanya went back to the small seaside town she came from and I never heard from her again.

But before I met Tanya, I'd had a… crush, I suppose, on Pete Stevenson. It lasted a few months. He was kind of pretty and he had these ridiculously long eyelashes and those blue eyes and I liked the way he looked at me. And he was a guy. So I couldn't say I _wasn't_ gay.

"It's… complicated."

You said nothing, waited for me to explain.

"I– Do I have to be one or the other?"

"You're bi?"

"N–no." I sucked on my bottom lip for a moment. "Maybe. I've liked girls and guys… but I don't really…"

There was a painting I hadn't seen before tacked to the board over your desk. Pink feathers, huge round eyes, green claws. An owl. The painting was childlike, but the writing in the corner wasn't. Probably something one of the twins had done at school.

"Edward?" Your voice wobbled.

I wondered if you'd understand. "Can't I just be interested in a person. Not a whole–" I waved a hand "–group of them? I usually like one person at a time, you know?"

You considered that, twirling a piece of hair around your index finger. "Yeah," you said. "That makes sense."

You sat up, took my hand in yours, and began tracing patterns across my palm. It tickled, and it took effort not to curl my fist, to still your fingers.

"Maybe," you said, the tip of your finger moving across one of the lines cut into my palm, "it's really not that complicated. Maybe you just love who you love."

I closed my fingers. Not because my palm was too sensitive—because my heart was. You'd been my best friend for eight years and right then I knew you would be for the rest of my life. You understood the things I couldn't even put into words. You got me.

…

I've turned that memory over in my mind countless times. If it were a photograph, it would've long since faded, the oil of my fingertips degrading it as I tried to commit every detail to memory.

Lying here, watching a few wisps of smoke from the neighbor's chimney curl over the street, with the colored lights of Christmas blinking in my peripheral vision and the heavy smells of burning wood and roasting meat in my nose, and with your silence ringing in my ears, it's like I'm breathing in understanding with the winter air. It's something I think I've always known, but it feels brand new and exhilarating, too.

_Maybe you just love who you love_, you said.

Maybe I just love you.

* * *

_More soon._

_Shell x_

_P.S. BelieveItOrNot and I (daisyandphoebe) are currently writing Heart's Desire (Ceanothus gloriosus). It's in my favourites if you want to join us there._


	2. Chapter 2

_Hadley Hemingway betas, encourages, and is generally wonderful._

_BelieveItOrNot: you're the knees of the bee, the sun-sparkle on the sea, __the milk in my tea, _and the icing on my cake. Cake doesn't rhyme. Girl, I love ya heaps.

* * *

**Chapter 2.**

* * *

It's getting colder, the breeze swooping low and slicing through my sweater, nipping at my ankles where my jeans have ridden up. I get to my feet and fish my phone from my back pocket.

Nothing.

Buttery light spills from your windows, pooling on the lawn. My stomach tightens.

I duck my head, curl my shoulders against the wind, and head inside.

Maybe you left your cell at home. Or lost it. Or the battery is dead. Maybe your mom confiscated it.

The front door closes behind me, loud enough to make me flinch, leaving me alone in the dark. The smells of Christmas and family that eddied around me in the street are gone, overtaken by the astringent bite of whatever detergent Siobhan, the lady my mom pays to clean the house twice a week, uses on the carpet. Our house smells about as homey as a museum or a hospital.

My watch beeps, ordering me into the kitchen. I flip on every light switch I pass.

Six o'clock. Grab a can of soda from the fridge and take it upstairs. Rifle through my drawer until I find the little yellow tube of pills. Swallow one down, the imagined bitter taste washed away with a mouthful of cherry cola. Reset my alarm for tomorrow.

I think about texting you, telling you that I need you. Just to check, to see if you're ignoring me. But even before the thought is fully there in my head, I'm pushing it away. I don't cry wolf.

…

When Dad left, when he went to work one morning and never came home, life was pretty unbearable. It was fall, winter's bite already prowling the early mornings.

My mom spent a lot of time with her face in an oversized wine glass. I was left to my own devices, every fifteen-year-old's dream. I could do whatever I wanted—she was too absorbed in her own misery to do shit-all about it.

But I didn't want to do… well, anything.

I spent a lot of time lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I stopped reading, stopped writing my shitty little verses, stopped listening to music. I could've blared my tunes as loudly as I wanted. My mom, lost in her Sauvignon Blanc haze, wouldn't have noticed.

Before Dad left, I'd been at war with my parents' auditory senses. Night by night, I'd slowly increase the volume on my stereo, acclimating my parents to The Beastie Boys or Rage Against the Machine or Crystal Castles—until they'd finally realize the noise could be heard from across the road (probably because some "concerned" neighbor would call them up). They'd read me the riot act and I'd have to drop the volume back to its lowest setting.

With him gone… I just didn't care. Beats, rhythms, lyrics, they no longer made sense to me. There was no joy for me in a well-crafted verse, no euphoria in losing myself in that space between thudding bass notes. Dust gathered on my speakers, clouded over the lids of my turntables.

Within weeks, Mom had pulled the wine bottle from her mouth and reapplied her lipstick. She traded yoga pants for pantsuits, her tears for a string of pearls. She pulled herself together, determined to hush the whispers skittering down the street like the autumn leaves.

Instead of people's pity, she demanded their admiration.

"Just look at Esme Cullen. Her husband left her and she went through such a rough time. But look at her now!"

"She's lost so much weight. And don't her roses look amazing?"

"I hear she got a promotion. _And_ she's getting her kitchen remodelled."

She slipped her feet back into her stilettos and held her head high… while I fell apart.

No one noticed. My friends shrugged off my listlessness, the unwashed hair, the dirty clothes, the constant turning down of their offers to hang out. They joked about it, their voices warm with affection. Edward Cullen: "moody asshole," "emo dickhead."

My teachers patted my shoulder and sighed when I failed to hand in yet another piece of homework. They were unfailingly patient, offering to let me make it up later or tutor me after class. They reminded me I could see the guidance counselor any time. I was labelled "troubled," and "at-risk."

A fifteen-year-old kid abandoned by his father—who wouldn't become those things?

Even the tears were easy to hide. The puffy, red-rimmed eyes, the refusal to meet anyone's gaze—I was obviously just getting stoned behind the gym between classes… and in the parking lot before school… and my weekends must've been one long campaign of weed and alcohol abuse.

That rumor was convenient. I let everyone believe my affair with sweet Mary Jane was one of deep commitment. I bought for you, made sure people saw me rolling the joints I'd only watch you smoke. I clothed you in my sweaters so the smell would cling to me.

It took you a while to really see. To realize I wasn't just being sweet, that I wasn't just sheltering you from your parents' discipline.

"You've been crying." You dumped your bag and flopped onto my bed. Dirty clothes spilled onto the floor.

I said nothing. That sharp-edged lump in my throat would surely splinter any words I tried to force around it.

"Look at me."

I did.

"You're not high."

I shook my head.

"Are you ever?"

I shook my head again.

"Never?"

I cleared my throat, felt the scratch of all those months of unspoken words lodged there. "Once or twice. I–I don't really like how it makes me feel."

I buried my hands in the pockets of my sweater, pinched the fabric between my thumbs and forefingers. I couldn't read your expression, couldn't understand what was going on behind your pursed lips and furrowed brow.

"I figured you were protecting me. Like, from my mom smelling it on me or whatever."

"I was."

"But you were also using me to protect yourself."

"Yes."

You sat up, your gaze fixed on the window. Cobwebs had gathered in the top left corner, woven from the frame to the blind I hadn't opened since my dad left. "Why didn't you–" You pushed your hair away from your face. Little silver swallows dangled from your ears. "Did you really think I'd judge you?"

"I–" That lump in my throat swelled, made it hard to speak. "I'm sorry."

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. That mannerism was inherited from your mother, something she did when looking for patience.

"Edward…" When you opened your eyes, I saw the hurt you were trying to hide. "You couldn't just – I mean, after all these years, all our secrets, you couldn't tell me that you were hurting?"

"I didn't know what to say."

"'Bella, I'm not coping,' would've been a good start."

Your words were like a punch to the gut, like you'd knocked the wind right out of me.

_Not coping._

I looked at my hands, started to pick the black polish off my thumb nail.

"I'm coping."

"I don't think you are."

What the fuck would you know? It was for your sake I dragged myself out of bed and showed up at school each day. Even on the days that big jumble of _sad_ pressing down on my chest made it hard to breathe. I got up and went to school and sat through classes where the stuff I was supposed to be learning whizzed over my head like paper planes.

And I was still fucking breathing, wasn't I?

"Fuck you."

Maybe I winded you, too. The silence around us got thicker, heavier.

"Edward…" You coated my name in sympathy and I hated it.

"Maybe you should go."

"Maybe I should."

"Go, then."

You picked up your bag. "I'm gone."

I counted your footsteps on the stairs. Heard your sob just before you slammed the front door.

I didn't go to school the next day. Or for the rest of the week. I stayed in bed with my comforter pulled over my head. Slept all day. At night, once the line of light at the bottom of my mom's bedroom door disappeared, I'd go downstairs and eat a bowl of cereal. Occasionally, I took a shower.

The principal must've called my mom. And maybe that's what I had hoped for. For someone to make her notice.

"Get up and get dressed." She yanked the comforter off my bed and dumped it on the floor. Light flooded the room as she hauled the blinds open. I cringed, looking at her through slitted eyes. Her blurry face spoke to the space above my head. "You've got fifteen minutes."

The water in the shower was too hot, then too cold, no matter how minutely I adjusted the taps. I left it scalding hot, my skin turning red as my heart accelerated. I might have wished my mother would notice me, but I wasn't sure what to expect now that she had.

My hair still damp, a pair of balled up socks in my hand, I joined her at the breakfast table. "What's going on?" My voice creaked like a disused door.

"Excellent question. One I was hoping you could answer." She sat on the very edge of the chair, back straight, weight on her toes, like she was poised to take off at any moment.

"I, uh… I don't…" Where did I even start?

"Never mind. You can tell Dr. Greene all about it."

"Doctor?"

"Yes. Well, he's a psychologist. You've got an appointment this morning."

She dropped me off outside the psychologist's office. Didn't even park, just idled the BMW in front, holding up traffic. "I'll be back in an hour."

At the stoop, I hesitated, palm against the cold glass. _Not coping._ I pushed the door open.

…

I still see him, every other week. It's different now. We mostly just chat—Dr. Greene calls it "debriefing."

Sometimes we just talk about music and books. I doubt my mom would appreciate knowing she pays a hundred bucks an hour for me to talk James Sallis and Don DeLillo and Megan Abbott. Not that she's ever asked me about my appointments. So, while she keeps paying, I keep going.

…

My GP prescribed the meds, to "keep me on a even keel" while I sorted things out. "You probably won't need them long term," she said.

For the first few days I lurched through the house, feeling like the walls and floor had developed some kind of vendetta against me, taking every opportunity to deceive me and leave me bruised. But once they kicked in and my balance came back, they brought with them the desire to get out of bed each morning. My appetite returned. I went back to school. Started catching those paper planes.

You and I hadn't spoken in a month and it hurt the way a toothache does. It's constant, but you deal with it—until you bite down on the wrong thing and pain goes shooting around your head and you think it's going to explode.

It was a frigid December evening when it got too much for me. When I decided the Bella-sized hole in my life had to be plugged. I jammed on a beanie and turned the collar of my jacket up against the wind.

Your mom answered the door. Warm, cinnamon-scented air poured out of the house, a sweet contrast to the ice in her blue eyes.

"Oh." She forced a smile. "Hello, Edward."

"Hi, Mrs. Swan."

"You look much better, dear." I doubt she meant I looked less sad. She was probably just relieved I wasn't wearing any makeup.

"Thank you. Is Bella at home?"

"Yes."

I didn't roll my eyes. "Ca– May I see her?"

She hesitated, made a show of checking her watch. "Well, we're having dinner in half an hour…"

"I'll be gone by then," I told her. "Mom will be expecting me home to eat." That wasn't true. My mom was working late and probably wouldn't be home until after I'd gone to bed.

"Of course." Your mother opened the door enough to let me slip inside. "Shoes, Edward. She's up in her room."

My stomach seemed to shrink as I climbed the stairs in my socks. Pictures of the twins lined the stairwell—I watched them grow from babies to toddlers to little girls with pigtails as I made my way up.

Your bedroom door swung open as I raised my fist to knock. You'd had your hair colored in the weeks we hadn't been speaking. Kind of red, kind of brown. "It reminds me of cherry coke," I said.

You focused on the shiny strands twisted around your index finger. "I knew you'd say that."

Of course you did. You knew how much I loved that stuff, always telling me I'd end up with holes in my teeth if I didn't kick the habit. Is that why you'd picked that color? Were you missing me too? I searched your face, but you were giving nothing away.

You stepped back. "Shut the door."

_If there's a boy in your room, the door stays open_.

"Your mom…"

"Is an idiot if she thinks I'm having sex with her right beneath us."

I snickered. Still, I closed it quietly. No need to advertise.

Leaning against the closed door, I took a deep breath. Since seventh grade, your room had this way of smelling both the same and different every time I visited. Always girly and sweet, but the specifics changing continually: a new perfume or moisturizer, a different brand of shampoo. There was something new and floral—jasmine, maybe—that made the air seem lighter in here.

You sat on your bed, back against the wall, legs crossed like a little kid, a pillow cuddled in your lap.

"I'm sorry, Bella."

"Yeah." You nodded, but still didn't look me in the eye. "You should be."

"I am."

"Never speak to me like that again."

My harsh words—_Fuck you_—echoed my mind. I looked at my feet. There was a small hole in the toe of my left sock. "I won't."

"Come here."

The bed wobbled like it was made of jello as I climbed on and settled myself beside you. You rested your head on my shoulder and the new smell, flowery and clean, intensified. A new shampoo. I curled my arm around your back and squeezed you closer.

I swallowed. "I, uh… I started on some meds."

"I know. Mrs. Stanley told my mom."

Was that even legal? Mrs. Stanley worked in the pharmacy and she'd taken to clucking her tongue at me when I went in there. She always made her words long when she spoke, like I was a child, or one of those old ladies who were always forgetting their purses or getting confused about where they were, asking her for a pound of ground beef instead of their blood pressure pills. _Awww, Honey. How are you doing? Say hello to your mom for me, won't you, Sweetie?_

"Right."

You rubbed your cheek against my shoulder, like a cat. "Missed you."

I kissed the top of your head. "Me, too."

We sat like that until your Mom called out: "Dinner will be ready in ten minutes." The twins went thundering down the stairs—that was their cue to set the table.

"I should go."

"Yeah." You pulled back, hand on my knee. Your brow was wrinkled with concern, but your eyes were warm. "Edward?"

I waited.

"If things get bad again–"

"They won't."

You gave me a small, sad smile. "You don't know that."

"Bella…"

"I just– I want you to tell someone. It doesn't have to be me. But promise me you'll ask for help."

Your hand, small and soft, slipped into mine and pulled the words from me. "I promise."

…

My burp echoes in my empty bedroom. You'd be grossed out if you were here, and I'd be ducking away from the slap you aimed my way.

Smiling at the thought, I toss the empty can in the bin under my desk. I connect my phone to its charger and thumb the volume to high.

Words and phrases start to form in my mind. They come in bursts, and I imagine them hanging there, waiting for me to gather them up and put them in order.

My Moleskine open to a clean page, I pick up a pen and scribble in the corner until the ink starts to flow.

I snatch at the words crowding my brain, trying to get them to line up neatly on my page. My fingers tighten around the pen, pushing the words onto the page, as though if I press down with enough force they'll stick, accept the places I put them. I fill three pages with words, most crossed out as soon as they're formed, before I'm content.

_every color converges  
__into white light  
__a dark place scorched  
__by truth  
__made blind, I see_

_open eyes open lips  
__the words on my tongue  
__are sweet_

_and unheard_

…


	3. Chapter 3

_I owe the hugest of thanks to Hadley Hemingwa__y for her beta-love and support._

_Believey, I love you heaps. Enjoy! _

* * *

**Chapter 3.**

* * *

Crumpled pages, ripped from my Moleskine, are scattered across the desk. My fingers knotted in my hair. It's such a typical state of play that I glance over my shoulder, just to check you're not there, sprawled out on my bed with your homework, tapping a pen against your lips as you work.

…

"I don't know why you're freaking out about this." The bed frame squeaked as you abandoned your calculus books and moved to stand beside me. Outside, twilight was muting the end-of-summer sky. "You could hand in any one of those–" you flicked your fingers at the scraps of paper, "–and Berty'd be happy with it."

"Whatever." I picked up the waste paper basket and swept the ink-marred pages into it.

"Wait." You snagged one from the trash. "If you're going to throw them away, I might as well hand one in."

"Go for it." You would never.

Your eyes narrowed as you scanned the lines of text, lips vibrating around the words as you read them. I liked having my words in your mouth, but it also made me cringe. I wanted to give you better ones to taste.

"Explain it to me. What's wrong with this?"

I rocked back on my chair and its front legs lifted off the ground. In English class, that would've had Mrs. Berty wringing her age-spotted hands and telling the story about the boy she'd taught forty years ago who had almost died when he'd been swinging on his chair with a ruler in his mouth. She'd brought it up three times already that semester. I'm pretty sure she was bullshitting us. Or she'd told the story so many times she actually believed it happened.

I put my feet up on my desk, crossed my legs, and reached for the scrunched piece of poetry. "It's lame."

"_I_ like it."

That made me smile. "Thanks." The paper crackled under my fingers as I smoothed it against my thigh. "It's just – it's not very… I mean, the stuff I write, it's all on the surface, you know? I'm not good enough to… I don't know, write a poem about a sparrow picking through the trash that's actually a metaphor for finding hope in a broken world."

"So?"

"So, I write really… transparent. Personal stuff."

You pushed my feet off the desk and plonked yourself down on my lap, your thighs perpendicular to mine. You smacked my chest when I feigned a groan.

"I don't get why that means it's not good enough to hand in for Berty's assignment. All she asked for was a poem at least ten lines long."

"It's–"

"And she's not even grading them."

It was true that Mrs. Berty wasn't grading them. "Poetry is too subjective to grade," she'd said as she passed out copies of the poem we were discussing that lesson. (Donne's "The Flea," because teenagers can relate to dudes using lame arguments to convince chicks to sleep with them, I guess). Though it was first period, her lipstick had come off, probably pressed onto her coffee mug. Only her lip-liner remained, drawn too high above the line of her top lip. It somehow exaggerated the movement of her mouth so that from my seat at the back of the room, it seemed like her speech had been badly dubbed.

I wondered if she was just copping out, about poetry being too subjective to grade. Maybe she didn't "get" poetry herself, and that's why she wouldn't put a numerical value on it—because she couldn't. I could differentiate between the crap I'd written and the stuff I was proud of. Poetry, art, it might be subjective to a point, but simply existing didn't make it any good.

But whether she graded our poems or not made no real difference to me. I couldn't seem to write something that didn't give a piece of myself away. Poetry was what I did when no one was looking. (Except you, little sneak.) Squishing my soul into word and verse. Those poems were my self portraits. And dropping one on Mrs. Berty's desk… I imagined her reading it, peering over the top of her glasses, my page at arm's length, and my jaw clenched.

"It's just the idea of her reading them." I rested my chin on your shoulder. Your hair, vanilla-scented that week, tickled my cheek. "It'd be like asking you to hand over your diary."

"I don't keep a diary anymore."

"You know what I mean."

You shrugged. The movement jolted my chin and I bit my tongue. "Ouch."

Snickering, you half-patted, half-slapped my face. "There, there. Poor baby."

In retaliation, I dug my chin into your shoulder, working my jaw as you wriggled and complained.

"Stop it. Ow… Edward. Ow. That hurts!"

I pulled away to avoid your slaps. "You made me bite my tongue."

"Your chin is really bony." I could hear the pout in your voice as you rubbed your shoulder.

"Sorry." I tugged your earlobe, making the little swallow swing.

"Oh, my God. You're so annoying." You pushed yourself off my lap. "Just write one of those acrostic poem thingies."

"Like this?" I grabbed my pen wrote the letters of your name down my page.

"Brilliant and beautiful is my best friend," you said, pointing at the B.

"_E_ven when she's creating chaos." I scribbled the words down. "I'm totally going to turn this in, you know."

"I hope she makes you read it to the class."

I rolled my eyes. "Sure."

"Maybe it'd be a good thing," you said and the amusement drained from your voice. "Shut a few people up."

I sighed, putting down my pen. "Bella…"

"I'm serious."

Catching your hand, I looked up at you. The bangs falling into your eyes couldn't hide the worry and anger shining there. "It doesn't matter to me, what those assholes say."

Lips pressed into a line, you shook your head.

"What is it?"

"I don't – I just don't get why you're not more pissed off about it."

I looked at my hand on your wrist. Circling it, my thumb touched my the tip of my middle finger easily. I could probably stretch my hand around both your wrists.

"I _was_ pissed off."

Right at the end of summer break, I'd run into Pete Stevenson in the record store I liked to haunt. A suburb over, it was poorly lit and always smelled of wet carpet. They had an awesome selection of vinyl, though, which more than made up for the dankness. The owner was a pretty cool guy, too, even if his musical tastes had stopped evolving in the early-nineties. Dude would never let go of grunge.

Pete had seen the vinyl copy of _Odelay_ I was holding and we started chatting, which somehow slid into flirting. I liked his laugh. Warm and shy at the same time. There'd been no real intent on my part, I was just enjoying making him smile and the way his cheeks had turned kind of pink. I was surprised when he asked if I wanted to hang out at his place sometime.

I hadn't noticed Emmett McCarty browsing the Alt. Rock section until I heard his guffaw and his fake-whisper: "Faggots."

I'd rolled my eyes at his originality. But Pete had frozen, the blush draining from his cheeks. Looking at the floor, he made a strange choking noise. He sidestepped me, bumped a rack of DVDs, sending a bunch of them crashing to the floor, and then almost fell through the door in his hurry to leave.

I don't know if it was McCarty or Pete himself who'd started the rumors, but, by the time we were back in school, word had it that I'd tried to come onto Pete and wouldn't back off when he turned me down. Depending on who was telling the story, I'd also offered to give him head (and more) in the alley behind the store.

"You know I was upset." I picked up your other hand and pressed your wrists together. I was right: my fingers were long enough to shackle both your wrists. "But now… I guess I feel sorry for the guy."

"Pete? Or Emmett?"

"Pete. Emmett's an asshole."

You pulled your hands from my grip and folded your arms. "Pete's a coward."

"He's scared."

"But you–"

"You see how angry you are right now?" Cheeks flushed, eyes hard, knuckles white, knee bouncing: your anger was written in every line of your body.

You chewed your tongue as I got to my feet. You resisted me at first, shaking your head, but then dropped your arms and let me pull you into a hug. Your fingers twisted the hem of my shirt. Somewhere outside, an owl hooted.

"It's making you so mad, because you want to protect me from their shit. _That's_ why I can feel sorry for Pete. Because his buddies are hateful assholes, and he has to hide who he is from them."

"He should…" You shook your head against my chest.

"He knows, Bella." I'd seen the guilt, the uncertainty on Pete's face as I walked past his idiot friends in the corridors. I ignored the insults they spat at me; he didn't. I could read it in his eyes. He hated what was happening… just not enough to put himself in the line of fire. I didn't hold it against him. Had it been a year or two earlier? Maybe I would've made the same choice.

"And Emmett. He's… he's a bigot and I hate him."

I flinched. Such an ugly word.

"Yeah, well. Sometimes I'd like to punch McCarty in the mouth," I chuckled. "But that's not my style."

You sniffled, but I could hear your smile when you spoke. "Might chip your nail polish."

"Right." I squeezed you closer then let you go. You held on for a another breath before you stepped away.

I looked at the ridiculous acrostic poem half-written on my desk. "The L has to be for loyal."

Touching your pinkies to the corners of your eyes, you smiled. "Or _loser_. Oh, wait." The elbow you aimed at my ribs was gentler than usual. "You're writing it about me."

…

Lost somewhere between my memories and the ink smudged across my page, I hear my phone chine.

_Finally_, I think. The little sparrow living inside the birdhouse of my ribcage wakes up, fluttering its wings and hopping around on its perch.

But the text is just from my mom. The sparrow settles, tucks its head beneath its wing.

_Mom: Meeting ran late. Going for drinks w/ C. Be home v. late._

_C?_

Carlisle. Right.

"That's going to end badly." I toss my phone down without replying.

I've only met Carlisle twice, and the guy has _douche_ written all over him.

…

The first time he'd come over—he had some documents that needed Mom's signature—you were curled up beside me on the sofa in a pair of shorts with your hair tied in a bunch on top of your head. It was Halloween and we were watching _Love Actually_ because that's what you do: romantic comedies on Halloween and horror films on Valentine's Day and sweet-and-salty popcorn on every occasion. The creep couldn't keep his eyes off your legs as he waited for Mom to scrawl her name in the appropriate places.

The time after that, it had been almost eight o'clock when I opened the door, expecting you and finding him instead.

"You're up late, kid." The guy was wearing sunglasses. At eight o'clock at night.

"Your mom home?" He grinned at me as he flipped his shades up onto his head. Weirdly, the skinny-jeans-and-bowtie combo made him seem uncomfortably middle-aged instead of hipster-trendy. Shirt a little too loose, jeans a little too long: he looked like he was playing dress-up in a younger, but bigger, brother's clothes.

I grunted and opened the door enough to let him in. Immature maybe, but I could play uncommunicative teenager when I wanted. _Kid._ What an asshole.

"Your girl not around tonight?"

"Mom's in the kitchen," I told him, turning to head back to my room. I ignored him thanking me as I thundered back up the stairs.

You never did show up that night. At school the next morning you explained that your parents had grounded you for talking back to your dad and calling him sexist.

"He calls it 'traditional,'" you told me, shoving books into your locker. "Anyway, I'm just going through a phase."

"Something else you'll grow out of?" It was your dad's usual line when your ideologies were out of step with his.

"Yep." You slammed the metal door closed with a clang. "Once I'm out there in the _real_ world, I'll realize the idea that women should get equal pay for the same job is just juvenile nonsense."

I chuckled. "Seriously. You need to grow the hell up."

Not long after that, you wrote an essay on the subject, and got an A for it. We stuck it on your refrigerator, in the middle of all the twins' artwork and perfect spelling tests, and your dad laughed when he saw it hanging there.

"An A for one of your little rants?" He took it down, flipped through the pages. "Looks like a woman's writing."

"I'll let Mr. Greene know that you think so." You grabbed my elbow and pulled me out of the kitchen. A reminder to keep the bedroom door open chased us up the stairs.

…

I'm smiling as I look out the window. The house next door is outlined in twinkling lights and a column of smoke rises from the chimney, smudging the night sky.

_Where are you now?_ I slide my fingers through my hair. I really need to shower.

Yawning, I get to my feet and head for the bathroom.

The shower is hot enough to turn my skin red under the spray. I wash my hair and my face, swipe a finger under my eye to make sure all the eyeliner's gone, then scrawl your name on the fogged-over glass.

B  
E  
L  
L  
A

Words eddy in my mind like the steam in the shower stall: Bold. Loyal. Beautiful. Brave. Exquisite. Adventurous. Brilliant. Love.

Love.

My stomach tightens.

I draw a heart around your name. It's lopsided, the left side bigger than the right.

I laugh at myself and wipe the glass clean, then shut off the water.

By the time I'm dry and dressed, it's almost nine o'clock. Your curfew is nine-thirty. The sparrow ruffles its feathers. I'm certain I'll hear from you then.

…


	4. Chapter 4

_To Believey, with lots of love. Heaps of love, in fact. _

_And with many thanks to Hadley Hemingway._

* * *

**Chapter 4.**

* * *

Nine-thirty becomes ten and I'm still telling myself "not long now" while the minute hand swings low on its next circle around the clock face hung above my desk. The anticipation rippling in my stomach solidifies and becomes something heavy and consuming.

Next door's twinkle lights shut off; a few minutes later, the house beyond stops flashing. Someone, and I have my suspicions about whom, complained about the lights keeping the younger children awake, so there's now a neighborhood agreement that they'll all be switched off by ten-thirty. Someone actually went to the effort of making and distributing flyers detailing these rules. Except they're not rules, they're "recommendations." It's dumb. Surely most kids would be asleep before ten-thirty—the twins go to bed at eight o'clock—so what's the point? Get them turned off after dinner if it's really such a problem.

Usually I like to watch the street dimming, night taking hold. But tonight, it feels sort of ominous. More lights are extinguished. _Extinguished_. I say it out loud and it sounds almost threatening. My windows are closed but I imagine the soft hoots of an owl and the rustle of dead leaves in the street and I shiver, pull my sweater up around my neck. I reset my phone, even though my mom's text is proof it's working fine. When it comes back on, there are no new texts, emails, or Facebook messages. No missed calls.

I need a distraction. I suppose I could make myself something to eat, but my stomach feels unsettled to the point of nausea. I'm thinking about turning on the TV when the bottle of black nailpolish on my shelf catches my eye. That'll kill some time.

…

"Your nails look like crap. Buy some acetone." Was it really only yesterday you were giving me shit about the chipped paint on my fingernails?

It must've been. We killed an hour or so in the record store, where I gave you shit for buying Ed Sheeran's latest, and then I walked you over to Lauren's house for your Girls' Night.

"Come up for a while," you'd said, as we picked our way through the bicycles, skateboards, and Razor scooters abandoned in the driveway of the big, white house. "Lauren'll have some. I can do them for you."

Something moved above us. A little face peeped through the pink and purple curtains on the second storey—which reminded me of the last time you convinced me the girls wouldn't mind me coming in "for a while."

"No way. I came home with fucking purple glitter on my toes last time."

You giggled and tucked your hair behind your ear. "That wasn't my fault."

Lauren's youngest sister—the second storey spy—did them, her hands shaking, her face screwed up in concentration. She wouldn't look me in the eye, just smiled at my toes when I told her it was the best pedicure I'd ever had.

"Uh, yeah, it was. You were the one who put Jessie up to it."

"Yeah, but she was so sad about that kid teasing her at school. You helped her realize that not all boys are assholes, see?"

I shook my head. "That shit was a pain in the ass to get off." I took a step backwards, hands in my pockets. "Anyway, call me tomorrow?"

"Yep. See ya."

…

'Tomorrow' is almost over. You still haven't called.

I don't bother with the acetone, just layer on more black paint over the existing mess. It's not as neat as when you do it, but I'm a hell of a lot better at it than I was the first time boredom prompted me to pick up a bottle in your bedroom and paint my thumbnail blue.

By the time a second coat is dry, it's after eleven. I run downstairs to check the door is locked, though I leave on all the inside lights in case Mom comes home drunk and stumbling. I get in bed and read for a while. Or try to. I read the same paragraph three times and it still doesn't make sense, so I give up, toss the book onto my nightstand.

It's nothing out of the ordinary. There are ten million ways to explain your silence, your absence. You're grounded, out with a friend, having a fight with your parents, on the phone to Alice, you went Christmas shopping… It's not the first time you've left me waiting but, with this new word in my mind and my heartbeat, it feels new. And scary.

_I love you._

But love is a coin. Two sided.

I flip off the light, roll over to face the wall. Uncertainty gurgles through my veins, drawn down into that darkness in my gut. Like some kind of under-the-bed monster that feeds on children's fear, it becomes swollen with my questions: What do I do now? Should I tell you? Will you want to hear it?

What if you love someone else? The thought is like fingers around my throat.

No. I'd know. I always have.

_The way you couldn't leave your hair alone_ when you were talking to Seth Clearwater. He was probably your first crush. You'd untie and retie your ponytail, twist it up on top of your head, pull it loose again. I don't think you even knew you were doing it. Sometimes you'd work these tiny braids into it, and they'd get all tangled when you tried to undo them. It made my scalp ache just watching you.

_The way you'd pause in doorways, creating a jam, as you scanned the cafeteria or our classrooms._ I thought you were looking for somewhere to sit, and I'd give you a shove toward the nearest pair of free chairs, until I started watching you more closely. You were looking for that Paul guy. You'd spot him, smile, then look away. You never tried to sit by him—it was like it was enough to know he was there. He was pretty cute, a nice guy. His dad took a job overseas a semester later.

_The way your cheeks would turn pink _when Liam Maxwell started paying attention to you in eighth grade. And by paying attention I mean flicking chewed up bits of paper at you and pulling your hair when he was walking behind you. You should've been annoyed. I was. But I saw the way you'd blush and bite your lips to hide your smile and I knew you liked the attention. You liked him. And I'll never in a million years tell you this but, after a few weeks of him acting like a dickhead to get your attention, Riley and I shoved him into the brick wall behind the gym and told him to tell you he liked you or piss off and leave you alone. He took the second option, like a scared little shit—or maybe it was because he knew there was no way your parents would let you date anyone before you turned sixteen. I still feel kind of bad when I remember the way your eyes would drop when he'd blank you out every time you came face to face after he and I reached our "understanding."

_The way you wouldn't shut up_ about how great Jake Black was after he kissed you at his sister's party the summer before our junior year. Jake was so cute, so sweet, so thoughtful. You were _so_ in love with him. That is, until you got tired of him demanding all your time, all your attention. Until you told him you were too young to be so serious with someone. Until he turned up at your house with a bunch of flowers and got you grounded for a month for defying your parents' no-dating rule.

_The way I hardly heard from you_ when you first started seeing Sam Uley. I understood. Sex does that, especially when you're having to sneak around behind your parents' backs to have it. And hey, I did the same thing to you when Tanya was around. And after a while, we adjusted. We worked out how to balance friends and lovers.

So, yeah. There's no one else. Doubt's chokehold eases and I can breathe.

I roll over again, thump my pillow, pull the covers up. I yawn and sleep slowly descends, pressing down, making my limbs heavy, slowing my mind.

_This is weird_, I think, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. _Nothing has changed since the last time I lay here. But it feels like everything has._

…

"Edward."

Lit by the moon, your face is white and your eyes are black and I'm not sure if I'm awake or dreaming.

"Edward. Wake up."

I rub my eyes and you're still there, smiling. I can feel the weight of your body dipping the mattress. I can smell your shampoo and the faint traces of incense and weed clinging to your clothes. My hand feels too heavy under the covers but I manage to free it and I put it on your knee and it's warm and really there.

You're here. The sparrow wakes with a start and swoops from its perch, only to slam into my ribcage like it's a too-clean glass door.

Because I love you.

And now that you're here, I don't know what to do with that.

With you pinning my sheets down, it's a struggle to sit up. I pull a pillow into my lap and shake my head as if to dissipate the fog of sleep.

"Where–" My voice is sandpaper rough. I cough and clear my throat, try again. "Where have you been?"

"Out."

One word. It's such an insufficient explanation that a small chuckle escapes me.

I reach over and flip the lamp on.

You're in jeans and a too-big sweater that hangs off your shoulder, something you picked up in a goodwill store. It's knitted from chunky black wool, probably handmade by someone's grandmother. Your mom hates it, so either you've snuck out or you haven't been home since yesterday. Your makeup is a little smudgy and your hair is a mess, so the same applies.

"I forgot. Are you mad?"

I am mad. But I'm also too relieved to want to fight with you just yet. "Forgot what?"

"That I was staying at Alice's tonight." You're whispering and I interrupt you to ask if my mom's car is in the driveway. You say it isn't.

"You don't need to whisper then."

"Oh." At that you toe off your shoes and move to sit facing me, your legs criss-cross applesauce. "I was getting worried."

"_You_ were…" I shake my head, tug a hand through my hair. "Bella, where's your phone?"

You pull the tie from your hair and start unweaving the messy braid. "Mom's got it."

"She confiscated it?"

Hair falls around your face as you nod; it's kinked from the way it was tied. Even in the low light it glints red. "Too much talking back. And I swore in front of Charlotte."

"But she still let you go to Alice's?"

"Well, no. But she let me trade my phone for being grounded. She's got it for two weeks."

"Right."

You sigh, examining the ends of your hair. "I know I said I'd call you, but then Lauren's mom dropped me home late. And I was about to call you but Mom got all up in my face and I got annoyed. By the time she calmed down and took me over to Alice's, I just forgot. I'm really sorry."

"I…" I don't know what to say. I feel stupid. Annoyed. Relieved. "You're here."

"Yeah." You push your hair over one shoulder, separate out a strand, and start braiding it. "And so then, I was going to call you on Alice's phone, but she's been on it since like, all freaking night, so I figured, screw it, I'd just come over and see you."

"That's it?" I don't mean to say it out loud, but you don't seem to find it strange.

"Yeah. I'm sorry, man. I feel like such a flake. Were you…" You squint at me as you start working on another braid, and I wonder what you're looking for, what you see. "Were you worried?"

I scratch the back of my neck and drop my gaze to your feet. Your toenails are a familiar shade of sparkly purple.

"Kind of, yeah."

You wrinkle your nose, but it's a grimace aimed at yourself, not at me. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," I say, and it is and it's not, but I'm tired and I'll wait until later to untangle the mess of feeling I've got balled up inside.

You yawn, covering your mouth with the back of your hand, and I notice that your fingernails match your toes.

"Are you going back to Alice's?"

You shrug. "I can. Do you want me to?"

I don't answer, just lie back down and lift the corner of my comforter. You nod, then reach for my phone and tap at it for a minute; I figure you're texting Alice.

You climb into bed beside me and steal one of my pillows. Our shoulders are pressed together and your foot is against my calf and it's so familiar. We've slept like this so many times, and usually it'd mean talking into the night until our speech is slurred, but you're yawning again and it's making me yawn, too. And maybe the anxiety I've been trying to keep in check all day has caught up with me because even though I have a hundred different thoughts running through my brain I can't find the energy to give them voice. Not right now. I think I'm asleep before you've even switched off the lamp.


	5. Chapter 5

_My thanks to Hadley Hemingway for her magic beta-wand waving, and her encouragement._

_BelieveItOrNot... Girl, I love you heaps. Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter 5.**

* * *

I wake several times through the night. Each time, anxiety grabs hold of me, my lungs and stomach in its vise grip, until the smell of your shampoo registers. It settles over me like a blanket, soft and comforting. It's a new fragrance, but somehow still flowery and familiar.

Sometime before dawn, I have a strange dream. Vines carrying tiny white blossoms creep around the railings of what looks like one of those garden gazebos. Except I know, in the way you know such things in dreams, that it's actually a birdcage. A birdcage with no bars. You're with me, and we're sitting on a bench in the center of the cage. We're deep in conversation. When I wake, I don't remember what we were saying, but the anxiety that plagued me through the night has drained away, leaving only a shadow of confusion.

You're still asleep, snuffling a little, your back to me. Blue-grey shadows stretch across the room as morning's wintery light seeps in.

Your hair is everywhere, a few stray strands on my pillow, your sleeve, my sleeve—I'm always picking long strands of hair off my clothing, even when I haven't seen you for days. I used to joke you were like a molting cat, which made you scrunch your nose because you don't really like cats. Well, that's not exactly right. You _want_ to like them but your grandmother's bad-tempered tabby scratched you one too many times when you were a kid so you've always been kind of nervous around them.

Tentatively—not wanting to wake you, but half-wishing you'd rouse—I run my fingers through the ends of your hair. You've told me what it's called, the way your color moves from dark brown through maroon to vibrant red, but I can't remember the word. My fingers catch on one of the little braids I watched you weave last night and you mutter something in your sleep. I pull my hand away as you roll toward me. Your eyes, still smudged with day-old makeup, stay closed.

If you were anyone but you, watching you sleep would be weird and kind of creepy. But I've startled awake on more than one occasion to find us nose to nose, your eyes full of laughter as you tell me that I've been snoring like a chainsaw. And there was that one time I forgot you were there until I heard you choking and calling me a disgusting, gross boy and well, I didn't live it down for weeks. You still insist that girls don't fart and I'll never, ever tell you this, but I know you do.

You mumble again and pull the comforter up around your neck and I realise that, at some point during the night, you must've woken and stripped off your black sweater, because you're just wearing a simple tank top now.

A few moments pass and then your socked feet touch mine and you speak, your voice scratchy and low. "Morning."

"Hey."

"What time is it?"

I lift up to look at the clock above my desk. "Only seven-thirty."

You hide a yawn behind your hand. "Okay."

It's only then that I remember you're not supposed to be here. "Is your mom picking you up from Alice's?"

"Mmm." You yawn again. "No. I told her I'd get Alice to drop me at home."

"Okay."

You wriggle in closer; your hand finds my shirt and you tuck your head under my chin. Wisps of your hair tickle my neck as I fold my arm around you.

This is new.

All the times we've shared a bed, it's never been like this. Neither of us are cuddlers. Or maybe I am and I just didn't know it until now. Because this? This feels right. You fit against me like you were made to snuggle in there, your face against my chest and my chin on top of your head. Or maybe it's not that we're not made like this, it's that we're each good at shaping ourself to the other.

We just stay like that, snuggled in close, as the shadows grow shorter and the world outside my window starts to wake.

A few cars rumble past. Someone a few houses up starts a lawn mower and the smell of cut grass follows a few minutes later. Little kids spill out of their houses, their laughter and chatter filling the air.

I open my eyes and look down at you and you're looking at me. And your mouth is just there and I really want to kiss you. I lick my lips.

It's been years since I kissed you. It was only that one time, maybe four years ago, and I was more focused on my fingers as they slipped inside your panties than I was on the touch of our lips, the feel of your mouth on mine.

Isn't that weird? That I can't really remember what kissing you felt like?

But now that I'm thinking about it, it's like it's the only thing I _can_ think about.

You're still staring at me, and I'm still staring at your lips and I really, really want to just press my mouth to yours and see what happens.

So I do.

And you don't move. I hear your tiny intake of breath and then… nothing. It's like you freeze and oh, shit, I've fucked up, haven't I?

I start to pull away when I feel your fingers twist into my shirt front. You hold me there, close enough to feel your breath against my lips.

"What are you doing?" It's just a whisper.

"I–" I lean my forehead against yours, wishing we could do that thing, what's it called? Osmosis? If I could just pour everything that's flooding through my brain into yours, would you understand why I suddenly need to kiss you?

But the only way I can transfer my thoughts to you is through that medium that's scary as hell, but the one we've always been so good at: honesty.

So I tell you. I pull back so I can look you in the eye and I take a deep breath and I hope I'm not about to ruin everything that matters.

"I think I love you."

"You think?"

I pause, searching your eyes and I think I see something there in the way they're kind of shining. So I tell you. "I know. I love you. I'm _in love_ with you."

You close your eyes and it looks like there's a tear caught in your eyelashes and I don't know what that means and I think I'm going to be sick. My stomach twists and it feels as though my heart is slamming itself against my sternum, like its desperate to escape.

"When?"

That's a hard question to answer. "I figured it out last night," I tell you. "But it was like… It was as if I was just realizing something I'd always known."

You laugh, just a shaky exhale of breath. "Took you long enough."

_What does that mean?_

"Bella, I… Do…" The words keep breaking up in my mouth, refusing to be coerced into speech.

But in my head, I'm shouting: _Open your eyes. Talk to me. Tell me you feel the same. Tell me you don't. Just… please, show me where I stand. _

Your hand on my cheek slows the rising panic. "Calm down."

How do you do that? Even with your eyes closed. Maybe with your hand still curled against my chest you can feel my heart racing.

Or maybe it's just because you know me so well.

Maybe it's because you love me, too.

It happens again. The world tilts on its axis and realigns.

I pick up one of the tiny braids and run my fingers along its length. When I reach the end, I twist it around my finger.

_You love me._

I know you do. I can feel it, see it, give a million examples to illustrate it.

There's nothing I'm more certain of than your love. Since we were nine years old, you've been my best friend, the person who loved me unconditionally, even when it meant kicking my ass. You've even loved me enough to risk our friendship, to push me into getting help when I needed it.

But there's love and there's love, isn't there?

And there's this little braid in my hand.

And there's the pink spreading across your cheeks.

"Open your eyes," I say.

And there's that. The way you're looking up at me. Smiling with your lips and your eyes.

"You love me," I tell you, like you don't know.

You chuckle and, God, I love to hear you laugh.

"Yeah." You untangle your fingers from my shirt and smooth your hand across the few inches of pillowcase that separates us. "Yeah, I do."

I push up on my elbow and lean over to kiss you, but then I stop and pull back again. "When did you know?"

"After that shit with Pete." You touch my lips with your fingertips. I kiss them and you don't move them away.

"I realized I… This makes me sound awful. But I realized I was more jealous than I was angry."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I _was_ pissed off. Of course I was. I was furious with those narrow-minded, bigoted, dumbass, sons of bitches." You shake your head. "But I was jealous, too."

"Jealous?"

"Yeah. Everyone thought you were into Pete and, even though I knew you weren't, I had all these weird feelings going on and it just kind of hit me that it was because I wanted you to be into _me_."

"I–I'm…" I feel like I should apologize or something. And I want to ask if it's been hurting you, feeling this way, but no matter how I construct the words in my head, they won't line up neatly.

"Hey." You smooth your fingertips across my forehead, trying to chase away my frown. "It's all right. I mean, at first I tried to talk myself out of how I felt, but you know how stubborn I can be."

I snicker because mules have got nothing on you.

"And then… I guess, I figured I'd just wait. And while I waited, I watched. And–" your hand slides down to my cheek, curves around it "–watching, I just had this feeling that… Well, _hope_ doesn't seem like the right word, because it makes you think of a wish, doesn't it? And it was something firmer than that."

I don't know what to say.

"More like… trust." You smile. "Yeah, that's it. I trusted that soon enough, you'd figure it out, too. We're just– It feels right, doesn't it?"

I press my lips to yours and kiss you for the first time. Just once, just the slightest pressure of my mouth against yours before I pull back. "Yeah, it does."

And then I kiss you again.

It escalates quickly. Lips and tongues and hot breath and you're tugging on my shirt trying to pull me on top of you. I don't resist. Your hair gets caught under my elbow as I move to hold myself over you without smothering you, and you wince as you tug it free.

"Sorry."

I think you say it doesn't matter but coherency gets lost in the press of your mouth against mine, in the slide of our tongues and your hands in my hair. And you have to be able to feel me, the way my body is responding, the way I want you, but it feels like maybe you want me, too, the way you're writhing beneath me.

Somewhere in a corner of my mind, it occurs to me that this has happened pretty fast. In less than twenty-four hours you've gone from my best friend to the girl I'm in love with… to the girl I really want to strip out of her clothes and make love to. And once I notice that thought tucked back there, it starts to grow, looming into the foreground and obscuring everything else until I have to pull back and gasp out,

"Wait."

You shake your head, your lips brushing mine, and mumble something about having waited long enough.

"Exactly," I say. I push up onto my elbow and sweep your hair out of your face. Sweat beads on your temples, curling the hair there. You're flushed and it looks good on you.

"If we've taken this long to get here, why rush things?"

"Why wait?" You counter.

I groan, because you're rocking your pelvis beneath me and, if my mind wants to slow things down a little, the rest of my body is definitely not in agreement. "Bella… I should at least– Let me take you out on a date first."

You stop moving and I think you've seen reason. But then you give me a smile, and it's one I know. It's close-lipped, smug and self-satisfied, and it's the smile that tells me whatever argument we're about to have, you're pretty confident you're going to win it.

"Edward? What's the point of dating?"

That stings and I'm sure my face falls. "You don't want to–"

You stop me, fingers to my lips.

"No, I mean in general. Like, why do people date?"

"To get to know each other." As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I know you've just gotten me to play the trump card for you.

"Do you seriously think there's anyone on the face of the earth that knows me better than you do?"

Apparently you weren't asking rhetorically, because you lift your eyebrow and look at me expectantly until I answer.

"No."

"And does anyone know you better than I do?"

Rather than admit you're right—verbally, at least—I kiss you. Hard.

Your tongue slides against mine and your hands are back in my hair and you tug and the ache makes me grunt into your mouth and thrust my hips against you, which makes you gasp into my mouth and it seems like every move I make ignites something in you which makes you move and that sparks something in me until we're tugging at each other's clothes, and I'm too drunk on the way you're kissing me to be able to figure out how to let go of you long enough to pull your tank top off.

You stop kissing me and push on my chest. I sit up on my knees and you follow, tugging at the hem of my shirt. You pull it over my head and I don't notice where you toss it.

I watch you pull your tank top off, but when you arch and reach back to undo your bra, I tell you to wait.

"Just let me look for a moment," I say, when you look like you're going to argue with me.

You relax back down onto the mattress, smirking up at me. I really have no idea how I've never paid any sustained attention to your breasts before this moment. You've changed in front of me so many times, worn bikinis in my presence, and I guess I knew they were pretty nice, but it never occurred to me to _really_ look.

With my hand on your sternum, the black of my fingernails is stark against your skin. I trace a finger across your chest, following the lacy edge of your bra. It's a nice bra, simple. White cotton and lilac lace.

I move lower, following the path my fingers just took with my lips. Your skin is so fucking soft.

Maybe I say that out loud, because I feel your laughter against my lips.

I pull back. "Okay. You can take it off now."

You cock an eyebrow at me. "Take if off yourself."

It's really not that hard, undoing the clasp—even though I can't see what I'm doing—and I feel the give in the elastic as it comes undone.

The frantic _want_ that gripped us just moments ago has eased. We go slowly now, uncovering each other piece by piece, touching, kissing, tasting.

It's exploration now, getting to know each other's bodies as thoroughly as we know every other piece of each other. It's almost awkward, peppered with too many, "Is this okay?" and, "Are you sure?" and "No, like this," but watching your face as I learn what makes you feel good is pretty damn amazing.

Fragments of poetry slip through my mind as I kiss my way around the curve of your breast, as my fingers climb down the ladder of your ribs, as your hair sweeps across my chest, as your fingernails dig into my biceps. I mumble them against your skin until you tug me back up and tell me I'm driving you crazy and that you need more.

There's a moment of panic as I scramble through my drawers and you dig through your bag until we find a condom.

You giggle, wiping a hand across your brow. "I would've made you go buy some," you say.

"I would've made you come."

You laugh harder at that—until I shut you up by making good on my inadvertent innuendo.

We're a sweaty, panting mess by the time we end up back where we started, side by side on my bed. The pillow's gone, though, having tumbled off the bed at some point, and the comforter is barely clinging to mattress—most of it is puddled on the floor.

And once again, it's almost disorienting, if I think about how much has changed in the space of twenty-four hours.

"Do you remember that merry-go-round? Over–" I wave a boneless arm toward the window "–at that playground that used to be behind Mrs. Jackson's place?"

"Uh-huh."

It was one of those self-propelled ones—hanging onto the metal handles with their chipped yellow paint, we'd run and run and run until it built up sufficient speed, and then jump onto the spinning metal disc, laughing as we wobbled and swayed. We always jumped off as it started to slow, and we'd stagger around, grabbing at each other. Feeling the stable, flat earth beneath our feet again was somehow more dizzying that being flung about on the ride.

And this feeling, right now, it feels like that, like I've jumped off mid-spin. As we lie here, catching our breath, it's like I'm waiting for gravity to make sense again.

Like I'm waiting for my head, spinning with everything that's just happened, to catch up with my heart and my body, stable and steady on the solid ground of truth.

…


End file.
